The Harp and the Blade (11 page)

“I’ve always thought you were a devil anyhow,” one of my students spoke up. “Nobody ever caught you praying.”

Some of them were smiling behind their hands, and then I knew. They had more or less believed Father Gaimar’s story until I had returned with evidence to refute it; now it was an excuse for satisfying the enmity aroused by their jealousy of me and of the Prior’s friendship for me. From the beginning they had resented my post of authority, and with Father Michael ill they could turn on me with impunity. \

“All right, you ticks,” I said angrily, “I’ll find another place for him—one with no monks around to make his wounds fester. Now send out my things, and make it fast!”

“We’re keeping them to pay for your board and lodging,” Father Paul informed me impudently, and at that I lost my self-control.

“Bring out my things!” I yelled, “or I’ll wait around and kill the first polecat of a holy father that tries to leave. Bring out my harp carefully and every coin of my money or I’ll kill two! Bring them right away or I’ll kill three!”

They ceased smiling then. They weren’t fighters and didn’t have the gumption to organize against me, so unless they stopped all outside pursuits, be they of business or of pleasure, I could lurk in the neighborhood and easily waylay enough monks to make my threats good. “Will you leave us in peace if we return your property?” the sacristan asked.

“If you hurry,” I snapped. “But you’d better keep a certain fat slug inside while I’m around or I might forget my agreement.”

Once I’d held his unwilling eyes, Father Paul had had all the jesting he wanted for one day. He scuttled away, and it was another monk who undertook the task of gathering and surrendering my gear. Still burning with rage, I went in search of a peasant’s shack where my charge could be housed.

H
IS
eyes were partly open when I returned with a fellow whose hospitality I had bought. I had succeeded in finding a fairly clean shanty, and beyond cleaning his wound there was not much more I could do for him. Though he had lost quite a lot of blood I judged his condition not serious, and I sat by his bed on the chance he’d revive enough to talk. I had plenty to think about while waiting.

I would no longer have any of the pleasant things—companionship, a library, decent quarters, or good food and wine— which the abbey had offered, so it seemed foolish to remain in the vicinity. Moreover, I didn’t have much money, and unless the injured man should unexpectedly convenience me with a speedy demise I would shortly have no funds. There was no way of acquiring any more money where I was, and no reasonable means of traveling anywhere but west, whence I had come.

An hour’s consideration was sterile of good answers. Finally the man stirred and looked at me. “Water?” I asked.

His eyes were feverish, but he was clear-headed enough to understand. He nodded, and I held his head so he could drink. “What happened to you?”

“Danes.”

That was interesting. “It looked like their work,” I said. “How far away are they?”

“I don’t know now. I broke through their attack and escaped. I was going to try to find help and have another crack at them, but I got fever. Lost track of what I was doing, though, so I guess I just kept right on going nowhere in particular.”

“Yes, of course.” I knew how it was with fever. “I found you in the water.”

“I don’t remember that.” He closed his eyes tiredly, and I went outside. The fellow had given me something new to consider. Down river were vikings who might solve my transportation problem. Once or twice in the past they had gone all the way up to sack Tours, but only a very strong force of them would dare that. They might not proceed any farther than the ten or fifteen miles below us they then were.

At the moment, with the drab work of piracy finished for the day, they should be gathering for drink and talk. As I visualized their bustling camp my own lot seemed a drab one. I thought about that a minute and made up my mind. I’d join the Danes and go whichever way they’d take me. If they wanted to thrust on east, well and good. I’d leave them at Tours. If they were returning west, on the contrary, I would accept it as Fate that I was not to make my trip to the Isle de France—at least by the Loire route. I’d see where they’d take me, hole up somewhere for the winter, and possibly go by way of Normandy in the spring.

Pleased at having an actual course to pursue, I retired early to the haystack that provided me with bedding and was up at dawn. Leaving the remainder of my money with the peasant to reward him for harboring the invalid, I started walking toward Nantes. I had thought of taking the skiff; but Gaimar had suspected that I might think of that, so it wasn’t there.

In so far as my impedimenta would allow, I walked fast. It was possible that the Danes would decide to go no farther inland, and I wanted to make sure of arriving at their camp before they turned back to the sea. Around a sweeping bend four or five miles downstream I first saw the smoke rising. It was not from a cooking fire either, and I nodded to myself. Arson was the national pastime of the Danes. If they couldn’t carry off a thing they had to see whether it would burn.

Not much past sunrise I met the first wayfarer, a worn man on a disinterested mule. “Don’t go any further,” he warned me. “There are Danes down river.”

“How many ships?” I asked.

“Seven,” he said, but I wasn’t impressed. They’d never reach Tours with just those few.

“Anybody making a stand against them?” I inquired next. “No,” he said disgustedly. “There’s no leader, and all anybody thought of was getting out of the way. I’m just riding to let people know they’re coming.”

He went on, and after a moment I followed him. He’d warn them at the monastery, and they’d escape all right; but there was something I had to do for Father Michael. But when I got back I went first to see if my waif had been taken care of. As I had half suspected he had been deserted.

He was awake and knew me. “What’s all the excitement? The Danes coming here, too?”

“Yes,” I told him. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to move you.” When I picked him up he gasped, but he made no other sound while I struggled the short distance to the abbey with him. The monks were all busy loading wains in preparation for flight out of reach in the forest. I put my burden down and looked at them grimly, but they weren’t inimical any longer. Calamity had temporarily cured them of pettiness, and they met my eyes sheepishly.

“Father Raoul,” I addressed the sacristan, “this man has already been wounded by the Danes. If they find him here they will finish what they started. You will take him with you?” Though a fumbler, he was a good-hearted old man, and I knew that he was one of the few that had not been actuated by malice the day before. “Certainly we’ll take him,” he said hastily. “Are you coming with us, too, my son? You’re welcome.”

“No, thanks. Where’s Father Michael?”

My friend was in a horse litter, shrunken and pale. It looked to me as if he might not survive the rigors of an overland journey, but I could help him a little. “I’ll see that the books aren’t burnt, Father.”

His drawn face lighted with pleasure. “That’s splendid,” he whispered.

“I’ll hide them and leave word where they are.” I hesitated while I thought of a safe place. “The message will be in a box under the northwest corner of the wheat field. Good luck, Father.”

He had no more strength for words, but his hand squeezed mine slightly. As I left him to enter the abbey they were placing the wounded man on a part of one of the wains where piled bedding would soften the joggling for him. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Finnian, an Irish bard.”

“I’ll remember,” he said.

I hadn’t told Father Michael where I was going to put the books, for the idea would have worried him. An old burial vault was the place I had in mind as being at once weatherproof and safe. The Danes would never look there because they had long ago learned that Christian priests, at any rate, didn’t bury valuables with their dead. It took me well over an hour to accomplish my task, then I returned to await the vikings.

The monks had taken things of practical worth and the more portable valuables, but there was still some loot. The Danes wouldn’t be too pleased, but at the same time they wouldn’t be put out of humor by complete disappointment, which was good for my purpose. I filled a couple of demijohns with wine, gathered a bunch of cups, then put them all on a table I’d dragged out into the court.

After a while a dragon came into sight, swiftly legging it up river, and I climbed down from my perch on the wall. No Dane could resist a monastery, so I knew there wasn’t any danger of them passing me by. When I heard them beaching a ship I filled a mug with wine and walked over to open the replaced shot window just enough to peek through with one eye.

A powerful, squat black Dane led. He had horns on his helmet, carried a huge axe and walked with a bow-legged swagger. About twenty warriors streamed after him, and I heard other ships landing. Marshaling his followers, the chief roared for the door to be opened. He himself apparently expected no results from this order, for he called out for those just arriving to bring a ram. I unlocked the door, slipped a chip of wood between it and the jamb to hold it closed, and went back to my wine.

“Get your weight behind it,” the leader was urging. “Hard now!”

I’ve never seen more surprised-looking men than the ten Danes who breezed through that door carrying a heavy, utterly useless log. Braking, they stood there, looking foolish and gaping at where I sat on the table idly swinging my legs.

“Why don’t you put it down?” I added to their astonishment by speaking to them in their own language. “It’s a pretty hot day to be running around with that sort of thing.”

The bandy-legged viking had followed them and was leaning on his axe in the doorway, glaring at me uncertainly. I was obviously no part of a monk, and what’s more I was grinning at him good-humoredly. I felt friendly, too, and not a bit concerned. It’s perfectly easy to get along with Danes when you haven’t got anything they covet. He began truculently enough, however.

“What are you doing here?”

“Drinking,” I illustrated.

“Why didn’t you open the door when I spoke?”

“Get your own men to open a door for you,” I told him calmly. “Of course, you did, but it shouldn’t have taken that many. When a door isn’t locked one man can move it quite easily.”

The log plumped to the ground. It takes a little time for a Dane to see what jokes he can see, but he gets a lot of fun out of one when he does. They roared, and finally bow-legs as well as the other vikings who had crowded to the door to peer in whooped with laughter also. I laughed with them and slapped the demijohns invitingly.

“Work first and drink later,” the commander said sententiously. “Anybody here but you?”

“No,” I replied offhandedly. “They got wind of you and cleared out last night. I happened to be passing by and moved in as there was no other decent place to sleep.”

He thought of something, and his voice grew edged again. “I suppose you’ve taken everything.”

I smiled to myself. Nothing hurts a Dane’s feelings like prethieving him. “There’s a lot of junk in there that you might like,” I reassured him. “The only thing I wanted was this. Skoal!”

After directing his men, who went about the business of pillaging like the old hands they were, the chief decided to join me. “I’m Thorgrim Gunnarson,” he said when I filled a mug for him and introduced myself.

Looking at both him and the big axe, which was not Danish made, though I had seen others like it, I thought a minute. Wherever Danes gather they tell about those among them who have distinguished themselves, and it’s part of my business to know such things. This was not a great viking leader but none the less a man who had won himself a name.

“You’re Thorgrim the Varanger,” I said. “Sweyn Buck-tooth killed your brother, you returned west, called him to a skerry, and slew him.”

He was delighted at being recognized, and from that point on I was in a favorable position to deal with him. “How far up are you going?” I asked.

He smacked his lips ruminatively. “That depends on what there is to take and how much trouble there’s likely to be in the taking. Do you know anything about that?”

As I knew how small a force he had and as long as I was counting on going with him, I didn’t want him to go any farther. There would be hard, fruitless fighting in which I had no lust to take part. “There’s a man just up the line called Chilbert who is considered very tough,” I informed him. “He doesn’t like anyone but himself to do the thieving, and he has a lot more men than you have to back him up.”

Thorgrim nodded. “I’ll go up and take a look at him. If it doesn’t seem feasible I won’t land.”

I’d pressed my point as far as I could. “How’s the luck been treating you?” I inquired.

“Oh, not so bad,” he said cheerfully. “We’re not strong enough to attack any really fortified towns, and the Loire has been pretty well picked over; but there are always slaves. They’re the most valuable thing next to gold itself.”

“Everybody around here seems to have cleared out,” I said. “We’ll round up some though,” he responded confidently. “These Frankish villeins seldom run far. They’re more afraid of a territory they don’t know than they are of being caught.” The miscellaneous booty from the abbey, consisting largely of sacramental appurtenances, trimmings, and assorted items of personal property, was being piled up outside. Then inevitably they set fire to the place. The abbey was soon burning furiously, and the Danes watched, pleased.

Others, meanwhile, had been sent inland to capture any people and commandeer any livestock that hadn’t fled or been driven out of reach. Thorgrim and I took a demijohn to the shade of a tree so that we could loaf in comfort until the foragers returned. “I was told you had seven ships,” I remarked. “Where are the other three?”

“I sent them to scour the north shore,” he answered.

“They’re supposed to meet us back here before dark.”

Wine in quantity in the middle of a hot day put me to sleep. By the time I’d waked, the raiding parties had started to sift back; nor was Thorgrim’s optimism unfounded. Between them they had seized enough cows and pigs to feed the pirates, in addition to one horse which Thorgrim sacrificed to Odin, hanging it and cutting its throat. There were, too, nine assorted peasants, of which none was old or a very young child. The latter is too poor a risk, being liable to perish on the voyage to the slave market.